


Experimentation

by tristesses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Joan attempts to have some personal time, and Sherlock is disinclined to allow her to do so. Or at least to do so alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experimentation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [This prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5311143#t5311143) at sherlockbbc_fic, which (condensed) says "can we have some fem!John/fem!Sherlock lesbian action?" The answer is yes, yes you can. Originally posted on 9/25/2010.

The only alone time Joan gets these days are those precious hours when Sherlock is too involved with an experiment to bother with ordering her around - not that she minds that, actually (disturbingly), but a woman likes to have some time to herself. After all, despite how frequently she makes Joan's life interesting (and troublesome), there are some things Sherlock can't help her with. Such as choosing what to watch to set the mood. Joan types the address of a very reliable site into her browser and clicks enter; there's thousands of videos to choose from, but she pauses for a moment before pressing play, listening for any telltale booms or the sound of breaking glass from downstairs. Right now, Sherlock is in the kitchen with a set of beakers and some purloined chemicals of dubious legality. Hopefully she won't cause an explosion like last time.

("It was an unexpected reaction that can hardly be counted as an explosion," she'd said derisively as Joan, gritting her teeth, pointed out the several teacups and plates shattered in the blast. "Don't look so irritated, you can buy new ones."

" _I_ can buy new ones?" Joan had asked. She may have waved her hands in the air in frustration, but later she'd deny doing such a thing.

"Can't you?" asked Sherlock. She had sounded slightly puzzled, and turned her back on Joan as if that were the end of it. And, of course, it was; as per usual, Joan had left it there, and bought new plates, and carried on behaving as if having your flatmate creating mini-bombs in the sink was an everyday experience every normal person should have.)

\- and _hell_ , here Joan is now, thinking about Sherlock while she's watching porn. True, it's absolutely terrible porn - as Joan refocusses her attentions, she wonders if the film directors think lesbians actually behave that way; those _nails_ , good God - so naturally her mind wandered. Doesn't matter; Joan clicks out of the site, shuts her laptop with a loud click, and flops back on her pillows. Shutting her eyes, she allows her thoughts to go where they please; not surprisingly, she thinks of Sarah. Sweet, pretty Sarah, who hasn't so much as let Joan put a hand up her shirt, who kisses like she wants Joan to lay her out and do unspeakable things to her but still has Joan sleep on the couch. What does she look like under those clothes? Full breasts, pink nipples flushed dark and smeared shiny with saliva once Joan gets her mouth on them.

Downstairs, the clinking of glass; Sherlock at her experiment. Joan's watched her before, face smooth in concentration and eyes narrow; she has short, unfiled nails and slender, deft fingers, and handles her equipment with the finesse that only comes with skill and long practice. Her wrists are slim, like her neck, and just as elegant, with blue veins visible just under the skin, patterned with endless small scars from countless cases - a necessary chemical analysis here (spilled acid, a diluted concentration), a knife fight there (a long, jagged white line ripped across her knuckles), small burns from cigarette ash and lit matches. She heals well, no hypertrophic scarring, but Joan knows she bruises easily. If Joan were to nip at the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger, or suck and bite at her delicate inner wrist, she'd leave a mark. It would stay a long time.

Joan's eyes are closed. She's pulled her shirt up over her breasts, is stroking the skin of her stomach and sides with the tips of her fingers, sending little shivers through her body. Her legs are splayed, and she touches her inner thighs with feather-light hands, traces letters on the damp cotton of her knickers. She knows what she's spelling, the only thing that ruins the illusion, but if she pretends well enough, she can make believe that it's Sherlock's fingers on her clit.

The thought - that she's getting off on her flatmate, her best friend who's just downstairs, _fuck_ \- it sends a fluttery jolt from her hands between her legs to the pit of her stomach. Joan lets out a tiny noise (hastily silenced, because what if Sherlock heard?), bites her lower lip hard between her teeth. God, what _if_ Sherlock heard? What would she think? Would she guess? Would she _know_? Joan's inhale is sharp and sudden, she can see it so clearly in her mind - she'd go downstairs after she's done up here, she wouldn't wash her hands, she'd be flushed and too smiley and Sherlock would look at her and - _because this is a fantasy_ , Joan excuses, _it doesn't need logic_ \- back her up against the counter, crowding her in a corner, something like that, somewhere where she can loom over Joan and fix her with those needlepoint eyes, and for some reason she's wearing her long coat and those leather gloves and she looks dangerous and gorgeous - (and in the here and now Joan's too wet to be wearing knickers, so she wriggles out of them and kicks them on the floor, eyes still shut) - securing Joan's wrists and leaning in close, pressing a trouser-clad knee between Joan's legs, putting just a little pressure right _there_ -

Joan's door swings open and Sherlock swirls in, and Joan barely manages to yank her hands away from between her legs before she yelps, "What are you _doing_?" Then, with a sigh, "That door was supposed to be locked."

Sherlock waves her hand, as if dismissing either Joan's protest or her lock, and says, "It was pathetically simple to pick. Do continue. I need your gun."

"My gun? Why?"

"Experiment. More properly, I need your bullets." Sherlock opens the drawer of her nightstand, presumably looking for the gun. Joan is too busy gawping, wondering if Sherlock's even aware of what she interrupted (of course she is, she's _Sherlock_ ), and concentrating on keeping her legs shut to point out that she doesn't keep her gun there anymore. Instead, she's got -

"What's this?" In the drawer is a slim wooden box, and Sherlock picks it up with interest. Joan makes a strangled noise and lunges, deciding nudity is not the most important thing at the moment (sex positivity is one thing, but Joan is a private person), but she's on the bed and Sherlock is standing, so her efforts are worthless; Sherlock opens the box, and her eyebrows arch.

"You replaced your gun with this by your bed?" She picks up the curved chrome dildo and looks at Joan. It's impossible to tell if she's mocking Joan or amused; probably both. "How Freudian of you."

Joan is nettled and bright red and nearly naked, and Sherlock's intense grey stare is doing nothing to dampen her arousal, so she draws her anger close and snaps, "First off, my gun is under my bed, where I can get at it much faster, and secondly, where do you get off picking my lock and barging into my room?"

"Hmm. I don't," Sherlock says, completing her study of the dildo and setting it down on the nightstand, closing the box and tucking it away. "But you do."

There were many responses Sherlock could have made to Joan's question, and many comebacks she could have made to those. Joan doesn't have one for that.

"I - what?"

Sherlock gives her a reproving look, the one she delivers when Joan is slow on the uptake at a crime scene. "Am I being somehow unclear? If you'll recall, I told you to continue when I came in."

If any of Joan's previous flatmates had acted like this, she'd either have laughed or been irritated, depending on the person, and accused them of being absolutely plastered. Those were normal reactions; instead, she's considering it. Masturbating while Sherlock - while Sherlock what, watches? Participates? Either way - oh God. She squeezes her thighs together, licks her lips. It's not a difficult decision; she left normal behind a long time ago.

"I was thinking about you," she says, and suddenly every iota of Sherlock's attention is focussed on her. She settles back on the pillows, painfully conscious of the knotted scar in her shoulder, bisected by her bra strap, and of the soft flesh of her belly and thighs; she's lost some of her army fitness, though not the tan. "Actually, about your hands. Your wrists. And your neck."

"My hands." Sherlock's voice lacks any inflection, and her face is utterly still; Joan can't tell what she's thinking, but her eyes are like lasers.

"Yeah. And your neck. I was thinking about how I'd like to kiss them." A pause; Joan runs her hands down her thighs, makes fists and rests them on her knees. "Bite them."

Sherlock blinks, a quick flutter of her lashes (a break in her composure? Surely not) and sits on the end of the bed. If she wanted to, she could grab Joan's ankles, pull her legs apart, but she doesn't. "Continue."

Joan gives her a grin. She feels overheated and a little giddy - she can't believe this is actually happening - and it makes her cheeky. "Talking or touching myself?" She straightens her legs and leans back on her elbows, fully stretched out. She can feel her pulse pounding in her throat. "I can do both, if you'd like."

In response, Sherlock extends her hand and touches the top of Joan's foot with two fingers. Joan's breath catches in her throat; Sherlock's fingers linger, then twist down to trace along her arch. "You were talking about my hands."

"Yes," Joan croaks, mesmerized by the starkness of Sherlock's white fingers against the glow of her skin. Unthinkingly, she points her toes at Sherlock, and Sherlock takes her foot in her hands, linking her fingers around Joan's ankle in a loose circle. "I - You have beautiful hands. I think about you just touching me, just like this, not even sexually - "

"You don't think this is sexual?" asks Sherlock, and this time the quirk of her mouth is clearly amused. She draws Joan's legs apart and slides the hand not holding her ankle up to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Joan's head falls back, she drags her thumb across her nipple and she groans, not just for show, canting her hips to the air, cool against the aching heat between her legs, and to Sherlock's intent gaze.

"Joan, I didn't tell you to stop talking."

Her voice always has the rasp of a former smoker, but now it's dropped lower, husky, sultry. Joan can hardly think, much less talk, but she says, "Sherlock - what else can I say? You know I want you, you have to know it - "

\- and Sherlock says, almost inaudibly, " _Good_ ," and pounces. She lets go of Joan's ankle and presses herself over Joan's body, insinuates her knee between Joan's legs - _just like I wanted_ , Joan thinks - but instead of pinning Joan down she takes two handfuls of Joan's hair and pulls, yanking Joan's chin up, and nips at her neck. The first flash of pain makes Joan's eyes go wide and her back arch, her hips rolling against Sherlock's leg; at the second, this time a bite at the point of her jaw, she moans. Then Sherlock's kissing her - really, truly kissing her, messy and uncoordinated and forceful, licking into her mouth; their teeth smack together but that just makes Joan want more, want to be closer, she pulls Sherlock in with a hand on the back of her neck and wraps her other arm around Sherlock's slim waist - and then Sherlock's hand, oh God, she reaches between them and spreads Joan open and while at first her touch is clinical, exploratory, she adapts to every one of Joan's tiny twitches and gasps and slips two of those gorgeous fingers inside Joan, hooks them to hit the spot that makes Joan whine and then pulls out, dragging Joan's fluids across the length of her sex to her clit where Sherlock rubs rough circles to the rhythm of Joan's hips; they've stopped kissing but Sherlock has pressed the fingers of her other hand inside Joan's mouth, far enough to make Joan gag a bit, and Joan sucks on them sloppily and tries not to blink so she never loses sight of Sherlock, a flush across her high cheekbones, pupils dark and blown and ringed with blazing grey - but Sherlock is merciless and when Joan comes, much sooner than ideal but much harder, too, her hips snap and her head jerks to the side and she thinks she may have screamed, hard to tell when her eyes are jammed shut and her entire body is flooded with a hot, pulsing wave of sensation centered around Sherlock's hand between her legs, and she doesn't get to see Sherlock's reaction but she can hear it, and feel the vibration of Sherlock's voice against her clavicle, saying "Joan, _Joan_ \- " as if she is some exquisite new thing to be studied, analysed, treasured.

Joan is shaking when Sherlock rolls off her, struggling to catch her breath. She props herself up on her elbows to look at Sherlock, who's resumed her perch on the edge of the bed, rubbing her fingers together and looking with interest at the glisten of moisture there.

Joan says the first thing that comes to her mind, which is "What about you? I mean, did you - "

"No." Sherlock stills for a moment, still examining her hand, then curls it into a fist and drops it to her lap, turning her head to gaze at Joan. "It's not necessary."

"Ah," says Joan, and pauses, clears her throat. She doesn't think she shows much of a reaction at all, though her world suddenly seems unreal, too clear, lines too distinct, and she feels a little lightheaded. Shock, yes, much sharper than she's felt it before, but then - this is so much more than anything she's had before. "So this was - " she hesitates, choosing the right words. "An experiment?"

Sherlock actually looks surprised for a moment, before her expression clears and she shakes her head in negation. "Joan, please do think," she says, with the long-suffering patience of a royal trapped among the plebes. "Simply because I don't feel the need to rut around in an attempt to reach a few seconds of orgasm doesn't mean that I'm opposed to helping you do the same." She pauses, for just a moment, and Joan thinks she may see a hint of uncertainty flit across Sherlock's face. "In fact, I enjoy it. Problem?"

Joan is already shaking her head. "No, no, definitely not. Like I said, you know, Sherlock - " she stretches a hand out to her friend, unsure of what she means to do with it, " - it's all fine."

Sherlock watches her for a moment, unreadable, then takes Joan's hand. "Good. Now hand me that." She nods to the nightstand, more particularly to the silver dildo lying there, still unused. Joan lifts an eyebrow at Sherlock over their clasped hands, and Sherlock develops an alarmingly wicked smile.

"Although since you mention it, I _do_ have an experiment in mind," she says.


End file.
